He was soon speeding along the arrow-straight, sunny freeway toward Phoenix. After executing a rapid, swerving off-ramp and on-ramp maneuver to evade any tail, he wound his way through the industrial area and to the anonymous weather-beaten brick warehouse that was Gregory Mencken’s workshop. He pulled up to the warehouse’s overhead door, and it clattered open to reveal an eagerly waiting Leah.
He eased the SUV into the darkened interior and had just gotten himself out of the vehicle when her arms wrapped around him, and he felt her warm body pressed against his. He felt such relief being in her embrace, hugging her tightly.
“My God,” she murmured, her expression anguished. “I saw the news. The explosion. I waited. You didn’t call.”
“I couldn’t risk it. I’m sure they were monitoring all the call traffic in the area. I’m so sorry.”
“Well, you’re here now.” They kissed warmly, then she drew away, her eyes searching his. “What happened?” she asked. “What did you do?”
“I couldn’t save Ecklund. But I did destroy the neuromorph. At least I stopped that replacement from happening.”
“You destroyed it? You penetrated the armor?”
“Yeah, and it showed some surprising behaviors. Strategic behaviors. I’ve got to tell LaPoint and Mencken all this. There may be a way they can use the information to make the neuromorphs more vulnerable.”
• • •
Landers stood mute in his apartment in The Haven, the utter lifelessness of his sagging body revealing him as an android.
Similarly, miles away, Blount sat in his office at Helpers, Inc., his door closed, staring blankly ahead. The hawk nose and gaunt face became but wax-like features. His trademark short-sleeved white shirt and cheap tie hung on his frame as on a department store manikin.
And in the nearby administration building, CEO Gail Phillips stopped in the middle of her spacious office, standing inert and glassy-eyed. She had asked for privacy, or her minions would have recognized her utter stillness as the telltale sign of a creature that was a mere machine.
In contrast to their physical inactivity, their neuromorphic brains were collaborating in furious processing. They were collectively reviewing video from their fellow neuromorph—now a shattered, smoking mass at the Maryland crime scene that was once the office of science adviser Rowland Ecklund.
They watched the neuromorph’s destruction through its own visual system. Then, they viewed videos from microbugs released by the android before the battle with Patrick Jensen. The microbugs had crawled to remote vantage points in Ecklund’s study—on a bookshelf and clinging to a wall.
Landers, Blount, and Phillips communally witnessed Jensen wrestling with the neuromorph, and the android ripping away his gun. They saw the android pause to request strategic guidance from the neuromorph network. That guidance had arrived—an instruction to kill Ecklund, not Jensen, since the neuromorphs calculated that the evidence would implicate the human. They saw the human fire shotgun slugs and a grenade into the android, damaging but not penetrating its RheoArmor. The last frame of the microbug video captured the final instant of the android’s existence.
To review the fiery aftermath, the three neuromorphs switched to a view outside the home, where yet another microbug had been dispatched during the android’s time there. That view captured the blast that destroyed the android and the entire wing of the house.
In their respective offices, the three neuromorphs organized data to be broadcast to the others, to be further processed and shared to formulate additional protective and attack strategies.
After twenty-three minutes, the recommendations arrived, crystallized from the group’s collective hive mind. The neuromorphs concluded that further hardening of future models would be required. The recommended enhancements included further reinforcing the internal armor, developing external armor, engineering an escape mechanism for the brain, and adding integrated weaponry. It would have taken millennia for outmoded biological evolution to develop such new features; neuromorphic evolution required mere minutes.
Finally, the neuromorphic hive also decided on an instruction to all: locate and kill Patrick Jensen and any associates.
The three neuromorphs returned to their normal activities. Landers was running diagnostics remotely on the newly programmed Gamma models, ensuring that they were effectively integrated into the neuromorph hive.
Blount reviewed what was known about the skills-sharing algorithm of the Defenders, preparing for the test of Garry LaPoint’s programming.
Phillips convened a board meeting to explain convincingly to its human members why it was a sound business decision to re-purpose the R&D laboratory to produce custom-built replicas. The new mission would yield considerable revenue and also enable the laboratory to develop new hardware and software to improve the capability of the Gamma line.
At the prospect of a new highly profitable revenue stream, the board voted unanimously to support the new venture.
• • •
“You’re really sure we’re safe here?” asked Leah, peering intently through her googles at the security camera feed in Mencken’s warehouse. Mencken shrugged as he settled himself into a chair in the small living area, with its ratty couch, chairs, and cots. A wall-size viddie screen was showing the news. It had been programmed to show anything on Helpers, robots, or any other subjects of interest to the group.
“Well, I got this place back when I started working with the Russians,” said Mencken. “After they threatened me, I decided it needed to be armored as hell, in case they decided to come after me. But, frankly, I don’t know whether it would be safe from the damned robots.”
“Well, we won’t be here long,” said Patrick. “We’re based elsewhere.” His knowing glance at Leah recalled their decision not to trust Mencken with any information about the safe house. Even though Mencken had the excuse that his family was in danger, he had been all too willing to take money from Russian gangsters and help commit their crimes. He might well be willing to betray Patrick, Leah, and Garry to the neuromorphs for money, almost certainly for his life.
“That’s fine,” said Mencken. “As long as you’re sure you’ll be safe.”
“We are,” said Leah. A movement on the camera feed caught her eye, and she signaled to Patrick, who snatched up his grenade launcher, aiming it at the door.
“It’s Garry,” said Leah with relief, and Patrick lowered his weapon as Leah opened the door.
“You weren’t followed?” she asked, as Garry slipped in.
“Hell, I don’t know. I guess not,” said Garry, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, his shirt showing armpit stains.
“And the box?” asked Mencken.
Garry held up the microbug detector Mencken had given him. The indicator light glowed comfortingly green.
“I’ve got bad news and good news,” said Garry.
“Bad news first,” said Patrick, still holding the grenade launcher.
“I finished programming the skills algorithm. It works—”
“Shit, Garry, that is the worst news!” said Mencken. “You give it to them, and the world is basically screwed.”
“I was going to add ‘sort of’” said Garry. “I put a glitch in the program . . . a bug.”
“Won’t that get you killed?”
“I hope not. I’ve made the code so it looks like the problem is not in the program, but in the hardware. So, they look incompatible.”
“Goddamn, Garry! So, that gets me killed!” Mencken stood up and spread his hands in frustration.
“No, not necessarily. They won’t know where to put the blame. They’ll need both of us to work it out.”
“Or neither of us,” said Mencken sourly. “Look, this makes me doubly screwed. They’ve been after me to come up with the secondskin-R2. The stuff that looks absolutely real, but is waterproof. That’s a major Achilles heel with these things. And I just don’t have it yet.”
“Can you put them off?” asked Patrick
. “The skin flaw gives us a strategic edge.”
“No. And I can’t just show them a sample and tell them it will look right on a full-sized android. I’ve got to show them a demo. Look, if I don’t give them a full demo . . . an absolutely realistic neuromorph . . . I’m dead. I don’t know how to get myself out of this.”
A dark silence settled over the group. Finally, Leah spoke, staring resolutely at her husband. “I know a way. Patrick won’t like it. But it’s the only way.”
• • •
“You are not going to do this!” exclaimed Patrick, pacing back forth, shaking his head decisively. They were alone now in the warehouse. Garry and Mencken had left to prepare their parts in the events that would follow. The two men had also sensed that Patrick and Leah had to argue over her audacious, possibly even suicidal, proposal.
“It’s the only way.” Leah stood with her arms folded, a stance that Patrick knew brooked no argument.
“We decided not to trust Mencken,” said Patrick.
“On the other hand, we need him,” Leah shot back. “He’s the only chance we’ve got . . . the only insider in the factory . . . who can get us the hell out of this mess and stop these things.”
“You go in there alone with that crook, he’s just as liable to hand you over to them.”
Leah smiled ruefully. “You forget, dear, if this doesn’t work, he’s as dead as I am.”
His shoulders slumped from his usual military bearing, and he enfolded her in his arms. “God, I couldn’t stand to lose you. I just couldn’t. And you’ll have to . . .” He stopped, unable to find the words to describe the performance that would be required of Leah.
“I can do it. I’m going to.”
“Okay, but only if you have backup.”
“Pat, there’s no way you could get in there in time. No way you’d have the firepower.”
“Firepower . . . yeah . . . sweetheart, what we’ve all been through has made it clear we need to take this to the next operational level.” Patrick took out his googles.
“What do you mean?”
“This has become just too big for us to hope to handle. We need my team.”
“Your old SEAL team? They’ll come?”
Patrick chuckled. “Once they find out what’s going on, we couldn’t keep them from coming.” He slipped on his googles and called up a virtual keyboard. He waved his fingers to tap out the first of eight terse messages.
• • •
The next morning, Mencken could barely suppress a shudder when the Helper laboratory doors swung open and Blount strode in. For the benefit of the workers, Blount’s programming instantly transformed his deadpan robotic demeanor into a human-like ersatz personality. He amiably greeted each of the engineers and technicians by name.
Mencken smiled wryly. The neuromorphs still hadn’t refined the subtleties of human-to-human contact. No human would greet people, one after another, carefully pronouncing each name. But none of the workers seemed to notice. Maybe they hadn’t yet witnessed the replicas they had been building in action. Or, maybe they didn’t want to know.
Blount entered Mencken’s office and closed the door, the android’s personality fading back into a blank mask.
“I want to see the demonstration model for secondskin-R2,” he announced simply.
“And good morning to you,” said Mencken. The sarcastic retort was both a small jab at Blount’s expense, and a means to buy time to gather his wits for his lies. “It’ll be done for the demo tomorrow. I’m putting the cosmetic touches on it in my warehouse.”
“Why isn’t it here?”
“I made the stuff at my place. And the instruments for sealing the seams and adding detail are there.”
Blount repeated, “Why isn’t it here?”
Mencken ignored the androids’ mechanistic repetition. “I had to do the finish work myself, because you killed my assistant. He was the one who could have done the final work to your specifications.”
“There are people here who do that work adequately.”
“You want adequate, or you want perfect?”
“Perfect.”
“Well, then, you’ll see perfect tomorrow.” Mencken cleared his throat nervously. He realized the cliff he was teetering on, promising a perfection that would trigger even closer scrutiny of his model.
“Garry LaPoint has sent me a message that the skills algorithm will be ready tomorrow, as well.”
“We thought as long as you were all physically present, that we should demonstrate the two key technologies that you have asked for.”
“Technologies that we required,” corrected Blount.
“Right . . . required.” Neuromorphs were precise in their use of language, Mencken knew. The word meant that the new technologies were “required” if Mencken and Garry were to remain relevant, and thus alive.
Blount continued. “In addition to those technologies, we are now finalizing further engineering requirements, based on field performance of existing units. We will instruct you and Garry LaPoint on those requirements at that time.”
The seven SEAL platoon members showed no sign that they had abruptly gathered their equipment, left their lives, and taken the first flight to Phoenix at the receipt of a cryptic message from Patrick. They had received only a string of acronyms: “BFH, PDFL, PDMP, TARFU” followed by the GPS coordinates of the Phoenix safe house.
The message was meant to warn his comrades that they would become immersed in the worst situation possible. In SEAL slang:
BFH stood for “Big Fucking Help.”
PDFL stood for “Pretty Dangerous Fucking Location.”
PDMP stood for “Pretty Dangerous Motherfucking People.”
TARFU stood for “Things Are Really Fucked Up.”
Now, the team sat around the large living room of the Harwood safe house. They had just heard Patrick brief them on everything known about the android neuromorphs, and their attacks—including the assault at The Haven, the massacre of the Russian mobsters, and Patrick’s search-and-destroy mission in Maryland. Patrick also declared his intention to destroy the neuromorphs.
“You’re nuts,” said Monte “Jammer” James, taking a healthy slug of beer. His fellow SEAL platoon members had given him the nickname because during training, he’d managed to jam just about every weapon he touched.
The team followed the venerated SEAL tradition of giving each member a nickname—not only as a joke, but for anonymity and efficiency when they communicated during missions.
“I vote nuts, too.” said Al “Driller” Harmon. The sniper’s nickname reflected his uncanny ability to hit a target time after time in precisely the same place. He had once taken out five terrorists in quick succession with five head shots.
“Nuts” votes also came from communications specialist Andy “Tinman” Green, Keshawn “Flash” Cranston, and Jack “Pitbull” DeFranco.
Tinman got his nickname for seemingly able to make shattered electronics work, which led the team to suspect he was part electronic himself. Flash had once stormed into a target house too quickly, before a flashbang grenade went off. Even blinded, he had taken out four kidnappers. Pitbull’s powerful, squat build spawned his nickname. As the team’s breacher, he often didn’t need tools to breach a door, using his own power.
“Fucking nuts is how I would put it,” said Eddie “Oopsie” Lane. The explosive expert had uttered that disconcerting exclamation during a crucial moment setting a charge on an operation in South America.
In the end, the label “Nuts” got the most votes, followed by “Crazy,” with one “FUBAR”—Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.
Finally, they came to the wiry, sharp-faced Johnny “Needle” Blake, the Assistant Officer in Charge in the platoon that Patrick had led. He was called “Needle” because of his smart mouth; and due to an ex-girlfriend’s sarcastic reference to the “needle-dick” shape of his penis.
“Okay, I vote that Patrick is only partly nuts,” he said shaking his head. “After
all, he did have the good sense to marry that beautiful, intelligent, gutsy woman. Damn, she killed a robot with a fork! Where is she, anyway?”
“Doing something none of us would have the guts to do, I guarantee it. But back to our business. I see the vote is unanimous.”
“Yeah, looks that way,” said Blake. “We all agree it’s crazy.”
“Good,” said Patrick, smiling and nodding gratefully at his comrades. Such votes had become a quirky custom of his SEAL platoon before an op. Only after everybody agreed that the mission was likely to be a totally disastrous Goat Fuck Operation did they go ahead. The vote served to focus the team on what could go wrong, so they could better ensure that nothing did go wrong.
“Yeah, this one is about as crazy as we’ve ever heard,” said Blake. “I mean Jesus! Trying to stop a horde of androids that look like humans. And we can’t enlist anybody else.”
“That just means it will take more time than usual . . .” cracked James. “. . . and more beer.”
“We’ll also need to get the rest of the platoon,” said Blake.
“We can’t do that,” said Patrick. “I called you all because you don’t have wives or children. We could all die doing this op. I didn’t want to be responsible for making widows and orphans. And you’ve also got the specialties we’ll need . . .” he gestured at the men around the room. “. . . sniper, breacher, communicator, heavy weapons, explosives, surveillance, and so forth. Okay, we’ve uploaded a military-grade communication package to your processors.” Patrick held up his own processor, the palm-sized supercomputer that wirelessly powered his googles. “I don’t have to tell you to use your own systems exclusively. These robots could tap our communications and trace us very easily.”
“So, where’s the big fuckin’ bang-bang, Cap?” asked Blake. “We’ll need ordnance. You had to employ some serious munitions to kill that machine at the science adviser’s house.”
“Yeah, and we can only assume things will get tougher,” said Patrick. “Our guy on the inside says they’re planning hardware upgrades as a result of that op.”
The Neuromorphs Page 15